The Gravity of Tempered Grace
by CamsthiSky
Summary: He's sick, he finally catches on, and at that moment, a cough builds up in his chest, and he barely has enough energy to sit up enough to let his lungs work properly. A coughing fit later, and Dick's breaths are making a horrible wheezing sound that makes him sound like one of Titus' chew toys. That's bad. He's pretty sure that's bad.
1. Chapter 1

**all I can say is that I love Sick Dick Fics, and that is my only excuse for this. There will be more of this coming after I finish up with thank you fics for donating! Speaking of, thanks to nopenopeblook for donating!**

 **noisypainterong asked: 18 with Dick and Tim? :)**

 ** _18\. I've got you._**

* * *

Dick wakes up to a splitting headache. His room is dark, and he's spread out over the blankets, apparently having not been bothered enough to get underneath the blankets. Which might have been a good thing because he's hot, sweat making his hair cling to his forehead and his clothes stick to his skin. There's this ache in his bones, too, and he thinks he'd be happy if he didn't have to move for the next couple years or so.

In short, he feels awful.

He thinks that maybe he should remember _why_ he feels so horrible, but the only thing his aching brain brings up are flashes of Tim in the Red Robin uniform, quirking his eyebrows at him and asking, _you sure you're up for this?_ And of Bruce saying a swift, _let's go_ , and after that there's only vague feelings of aching and floating.

He must have made it back to the manor somehow, though, because Dick's here, in his old bedroom. He's dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, and he's not wrapped up in any sort of bandages.

He's sick, he finally catches on, and at that moment, a cough builds up in his chest, and he barely has enough energy to sit up enough to let his lungs work properly. A coughing fit later, and Dick's breaths are making a horrible wheezing sound that makes him sound like one of Titus' chew toys.

That's bad. He's pretty sure that's bad.

The thing is, though, is that he can't remember what he's supposed to do about it. He wants to curl up in a ball on top of the covers again and hopefully fall asleep, but he also wants to find Bruce or Alfred or _somebody_ and just let them take care of him instead of trying to figure it out on his own.

He doesn't think he could remember how to even if he wanted to, though. _Bad,_ he thinks again.

He settles on finding Bruce.

Standing is a bigger struggle than sitting was, but Dick manages to push his achy body into an upright position and slowly shuffle out his bedroom door. Bruce's room is just down the hallway, usually just a few seconds away, but by the time Dick leans his sweaty forehead on the smooth wood of Bruce's door, it feels like an eternity has passed by.

He's just about to barge in and flop on top of Bruce and whine at his dad to make him feel better, but reality decides to hit him in the face, and that's when Dick remembers Selina's here, too. Probably in bed with Bruce. They're engaged now.

Dick doesn't know how to deal with that, so he turns around, shuffles back down the hallway, and flops down on top of Tim instead—who is actually asleep for once. Go figure.

Tim jolts awake with a squawk of protest as soon as Dick lands on him, but Dick whines pathetically into Tim's shoulder, and that's pretty much all it takes for Tim to freeze.

"Dick?" he asks, and an arm snake around his back. Dick just moans pathetically in response. He feels Tim swallow. "What's wrong?"

"Don't feel good," Dick mumbles.

Tim curses, and he helps Dick sit up. The motion has Dick's head spinning again, and he has to close his eyes to fight down the nausea while Tim wipes Dick's sweaty hair away from his forehead.

"You're burning up," Tim whispers.

Dick hums an affirmative, leaning into Tim's cool hand. It certainly _feels_ like he's burning, and from the inside out, too. But the air is hitting his skin, and his insides are starting to soak up all his heat, leaving his skin with goosebumps. His head is still hot, but he shivers once, twice, and then he can't stop. He moans again.

And then reality decides to slam into him again, and Dick's eyes shoot open. He stares at Tim for a good five seconds before he's pushing away Tim's hands and scrambling off the bed. His lungs decide that then, right _then,_ is when they want to stop working again.

"Dick?" Tim asks, bewildered as Dick stumbles to the door.

"Go back to bed, Timmy," Dick tries to order, but it's drowned out by his coughing fit.

He makes it to the hallway before he feels Tim's hands tugging on his shirt and arms wrapping around his waist. Dick knows the position. Tim's going to try to haul Dick back into the room. Back to the bed. Dick twists out of his arms—or. He tries to. Somehow it goes wrong, though, because everything goes dark for a split second, and then Dick's on his back. Panting. Staring up at Tim's concerned face in the dim hallway.

"Dick?!" Tim cries. There are fingers on Dick's wrist, monitoring his pulse, and a hand brushing away the hair from his forehead again. He meets Dick's eyes, and he must see something there that relieves him, because the tension in his face and shoulders loosens just slightly, and his expression goes soft. "Hey. I've got you, Dick."

"Go away," Dick gasps, and Tim recoils.

No, that's not what Dick had meant. He'd just meant—He'd just thought—

"I'm sick," Dick tries again, and his words are just barely audible. "You'll get sick, Tim."

"I'll be fine. Can you stand up."

"No," Dick moans. "No, no, _no_ , Timmy, you're gonna get sick. You don't have a spleen, kiddo. You can't be near me."

Tim expression tightens, and he repeats, "Can you stand, Dick?"

But Dick's not listening anymore. There's something wrong. His stomach flips, and Tim's voice is muffled. Like he's trying to eavesdrop through a wall. Black spots dance across his vision, and the darkness grows and grows. The last thing Dick remembers before he passes out is Tim calling his name. Tim shaking him. The shrill call of, _"BRUCE! BRUCE, HELP!"_

And then everything goes dark.

* * *

 **Updates will be sporadic, because frankly I'm a mess and I keep starting new stories, but I'll be back home in a little more than a week, so I'm going to try to use my four week break to update everything I can, as well as finish the last of the thank you fics. Thanks for being patient, you guys!**


	2. Chapter 2

_"BRUCE! BRUCE, HELP!"_

The yell has Bruce up and scrambling out of bed before he's even fully awake. He's pushing himself to his feet and flying towards the door. Towards Tim's distressed yells. He ignores Selina's _"What in the hell?"_ behind him, and sprints down the halls towards Tim's room.

Bruce's body just _moves_ , his mind trapped in its own shrill screams of terror that are bouncing around add disorienting him. His heart stutters in his chest and he can't help but think of the _what ifs_ as he rounds the last corner before Tim's bedroom.

At the sight before him, Bruce's mind wars two emotions.

The first is relief. Because Tim's sitting on the carpeted floor, obviously unhurt. He's looking up at Bruce with wide blue eyes, and there seems to be nothing wrong with him.

The second emotion hits him just moments after he processes the fact that Tim's just fine. His eyes lower, and they snatch on the prone form lying next to Tim, and Bruce's heart completely stops. His chest tightens, and his lungs have stopped working, because—

The world restarts itself, and Bruce is kneeling next to Tim faster than he can even process.

"Tell me what happened," Bruce orders, his fingers going to Dick's neck, checking his pulse. It's there. Thready, a little weak, but there. Bruce lets himself breathe just a little, and takes to checking over his oldest for any signs of injury.

"He's sick," Tim whispers, and when Bruce finally takes his eyes off of Dick, finding nothing but a high fever and a worrying stutter of Dick's lungs, he looks up at Tim and meets the horror-filled gaze. "God, he was trying to—I don't know. He was trying to get away from me."

"Delusional?" Bruce asks, feeling Dick's forehead. It's worryingly high, and Dick moans, but doesn't stir.

"I don't think so," Tim says, biting his lip. "I think he was worried about me getting sick, too."

"Your spleen," Bruce notes. "Start from the beginning."

Tim's face is almost completely blank of emotion. The horror's gone, and he's staring at Dick, like he's not sure how to feel, so he's choosing to feel nothing. "He fell on top of me. It woke me up. He started coughing, and then tried to run away. He was burning up, though, so I followed him, and then he collapsed when I tried to get him to lie back down."

Bruce tries to keep himself calm as he orders, "Go get Alfred, and then get Jason. Have them both meet me downstairs."

Tim blinks, finally seeming to shake himself out of it. "It's that bad?"

"A precaution." Bruce brushes Tim off. "Go."

Tim nods, and then he's up off the floor, and racing past Selina, who's finally rounded the corner. She stops dead at the sight of Bruce leaning over Dick, and her eyes widen.

"Bruce?" she wonders. "What's happening?"

"Can you go wake Damian and bring him to the Cave?" Bruce asks her, instead of answering. He doesn't know the answer to her question, and Damian will be furious—even _more_ furious—if he wakes up and finds he's the only one that hasn't been involved. Especially because it's Dick.

Selina watches him a moment, but eventually she nods and leaves the way she came, and Bruce is left alone in a hallway with his unconscious son.

He grits his teeth as he brushes Dick's sweaty hair away from his forehead. Dick doesn't react to the touch, and Bruce can't help the way is chest tightens even further. It's almost painful watching the way Dick's eyelids flutter, his eyelashes brushing his far too pale face.

"Hang on, Dick," Bruce says, even though his son can't hear him.

And with that, he lifts Dick into sitting position, one arm around his shoulders, one arm under his knees, and he lifts.

Bruce remembers a time—ten, fifteen years ago—when lifting Dick up in his arms like this was so much easier. He remembers a little ten year old, exhausted after a night of patrolling, falling asleep in the chair in front of the Cave's computer. Bruce remembers how light Dick had been back then.

He remembers a few years after that, when Dick had fallen asleep in the chair again after months of getting to his bedroom under his own power. Bruce had lifted the boy up then, too, and he'd been alarmed at how _heavy_ Dick had been compared to the last time he'd lifted Dick up. Dick had been growing up.

And now Dick's an adult, and Bruce is old. He feels it in his knees and his back as he lifts his son in his arms, almost _hearing_ the way they ache and creak as he sets down towards the study. Dick's deadweight in his arms, and he stumbles just a bit.

He keeps going, though, because Dick's breathing hitches, and he starts coughing. Bruce doesn't know what's wrong with Dick—he'd looked completely _fine_ before patrol. He doesn't know whether it's sickness or toxin or poison, but Bruce is going to figure it out.

"Hang in there, Dick," Bruce tells his unconscious son. "Just hang in there."


	3. Chapter 3

Tim feels numb.

There's anger, terror, worry, shock, and even _more_ terror, all rushing through his veins, swirling around until one emotion is completely inseparable from the next. And as they bleed together, they form something new. They form this numbness settling into his very bones.

Tim hasn't always been able to set aside his feelings during an emergency. There had been a patrol years ago with Bruce and Dick where Tim had completely fell apart after witnessing an explosion that had caught Bruce up in it. And Dick had had to take him to the Cave. Keep him from breaking when he must have breaking, too.

After that, Tim had been in awe of how strong Dick had been. Even when Bruce hadn't stumbled back to the Cave for another seven hours because he'd been too busy trying to help the other victims caught up in the explosion. Even when Bruce had collapsed halfway to the medbay from life-threatening injuries. Even after Tim had broken into tears because Bruce _wasn't waking up._ Dick had been strong.

But Tim's not fourteen anymore. He's dealt with so many things that _this_ shouldn't be the thing cracking him.

And yet here he is, standing in front of Jason's door, falling apart at the seams, the numbness the only thing really holding him together. And he needs to get it together. _Fast._ Bruce and Alfred—who he'd already sent down to the Cave—need his help. _Dick_ needs his help.

Tim bangs on Jason's door just a little too desperately. The numbness is fading too fast, the reality of the situation descending down on him bit by bit.

Nobody even knows what's _wrong_ with Dick, either. Not yet. Tim has his guesses, but there's no way to tell anything other than _sick._ But what kind of sick? Is it contagious? Is it life-threatening? He'd seemed _fine_ earlier in the day, if not a little tired. Tim hadn't tried to discourage him from going on patrol more than once, and he'd been _fine_ on patrol, too.

Tim's mind is racing, and Jason's not answering the door. Tim bangs his fist against it, just a little louder, and yells, "Jason! _Jason!"_

The door opens, and Jason—sleep ruffled, barely awake, yawning—bites out, " _Christ,_ Replacement. Do you have any idea what time—"

He stops dead when he meets Tim's eyes.

And of course, that's when Tim drops to his knees.

"Hey," Jason says, his voice right next to Tim's ear. "Hey, you gotta—shit, Tim. You need to breathe."

"I—I can't—"

He can't breathe. He's hyperventilating. This had been thrown on him all so suddenly, and he doesn't blame Dick for it, but he's tired and he can't scramble for enough composure to even send Jason to the Cave and he _doesn't know what he's doing._

"You can," Jason says in a tone that Tim's only ever heard him direct towards victims they'd just saved on the streets. Jason grasps his hand and tugs it towards him, flattening it on Jason's chest, and Tim feels the exaggerated movement of Jason's chest moving up and down. "Breathe with me. In." Jason breathes in, and while Tim's breath is sharp and stuttered, it stills goes in. Jason lets go of the breath. "Out."

In less than a moment, Tim manages to gain control of his breathing. They've spent too much time trying to stop Tim from panicking, and Tim needs to _focus_ , because Dick's down in the Cave. Bruce and Alfred are waiting for them.

"Well," Jason says, as Tim retracts his hand and instead places it over his eyes so that he doesn't have to see whatever emotion Jason's aiming his way. "That was fun. You okay?"

"Fine," Tim says, taking one more deep breath. _Focus_. There are things that he needs to be doing. He drops his eyes. "Fine. Dick's sick, and Bruce needs our help down in the Cave."

Jason's eyes sharpen, and Tim grabs hold of his emotions, shoves them down far away from him so they're not interfering with anything anymore.

 _Focus._

"From your reaction," Jason says, his voice quiet as they run down the hallway towards the study, "I'm guessing it's not very good."

"No," Tim whispers. He stops and opens the lock. Then he swallows and looks at Jason, those feelings threatening to surge up and consume him again, even though he's _dealt with worse_. "It's not."

They descend into the darkness of the Cave, and Tim wishes again that he didn't feel so much like that lost fourteen year old looking to his big brother for strength, because he's not sure Dick has any strength left to give him anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

"What are we dealing with?" Jason asks the moment he's down the Cave stairs.

Neither Bruce nor Alfred look up from what they're doing, and Jason finds himself stalling just a few feet from the medbay. He can't see Bruce's face, his back to Jason, but Alfred's face is grim as he fiddles with an IV bag. Jason feels something like dread settle in his stomach.

 _"Bruce,"_ Jason snaps after several seconds of silence, his dread sharpening into anger. Bruce ignores him, though, instead moving to the computer, and finally giving Jason a clear view of Dick.

Jason sucks in a sharp breath. And then he's back in motion, at Dick's side before he can even really think about moving his feet. He looks to Alfred.

"What do I need to do?" he asks.

"The oxygen mask," Alfred tells him, and Jason hurries to comply.

Jason's hands don't shake as he fits the mask over the lower half of Dick's face and starts the oxygen. They don't shake when he notices the blue tinge to his lips and nails. And they _definitely_ don't shake as he helps Alfred prop Dick's bed up to an almost ninety degree angle to help Dick's oxygen intake.

"What's wrong with him?" Jason asks as they step back. There's nothing to do, for now, and Alfred has taken to just holding Dick's hand. Jason goes to the foot of the bed, crosses his arms, and glances towards the computer, where Bruce and Tim—who had followed Jason down—are caught up in whatever's displayed there. "Tim said he was sick."

"Master Bruce is checking Master Dick's bloodwork, now," Alfred answers. He sounds sad, and he holds Dick's hand just a touch tighter. Jason pretends not to notice. "But it does seem as if it is some sort of lung infection."

"Frick," Jason mutters. "Any idea how?"

Alfred shakes his head. "I suppose we shall just have to wait for Master Dick to wake and tell us ourselves."

"Do you know how long that'll be?" Jason asks.

Alfred shakes his head again, but this time he stays quiet, and Jason's reminded about how much they tend to rely on Alfred for medical things. Except Alfred isn't a doctor, no matter how much he stitches them up and treats their colds and is forced to fish bullets out of their legs. He's reminded about how much they all seem to be stumbling here.

"Leslie?" Jason asks after a little while.

"I've called her," Alfred tells him. "She'll be here by morning."

"It's not any poison or toxin," Tim says, trudging over to a chair nearby Dick's bed and collapsing into it. The kid looks a lot better than he had fifteen minutes ago, but it's not by any great margin. There are still bags underneath his eyes. He's still way too heckin' pale, and Jason's stomach flips at how lifeless his gaze is. "It really does look like he's just sick."

"In that case," Alfred says, his voice gentle, but his eyes hard, "I don't believe it wise for you to be here, Master Tim. It might be contagious."

Tim pulls his knees up onto the chair, wrapping his arms around them to bring them in close and burying his face in them. He looks sickeningly small and vulnerable. His voice doesn't waver, though, when he says, "I'm staying here."

Alfred is quiet for a second, sparing Bruce a glance—who hasn't contributed a word since Jason first set foot down here—before he sighs and squeezes Dick's hand. "Very well. I believe I should check on Master Damian and Miss Kyle." He looks at Jason. "Call me if I'm needed."

Jason nods tightly, knowing it's an order to look after Dick. To _stay._ To not run off. He feels antsy, though. The Cave is charged with tension, and the three of them don't talk. Don't speak. Bruce stays at the computer, Tim stays curled up on the chair, and Jason stands at the foot of the bed.

It takes about twenty seconds for Jason to realize that this isn't going to work. He needs something to _do_ , and standing here watching his big brother struggle for a single breath isn't going to cut it. It's too mundane, too static. He doesn't know what he needs, but standing here, it's not working.

He understands why Bruce is at the computer, now. Why he's not sitting next to Dick's bed waiting until Dick _maybe_ wakes up.

"It's fucking cold down here," Jason mutters into the silence. "I'm gonna get some blankets."

He doesn't get a response, so he turns on his heel and marches deeper into the Cave, towards the hidden storage boxes near the changing rooms, and tugs one open to reveal the spare blankets Alfred keeps down here. He grabs one for Tim and himself, and stalls on taking another one for Bruce.

He doesn't even know if Bruce would appreciate it, or not. If his dad even gets cold when he already spends so much time down here. But maybe it'll be a comfort. Maybe it'll be appreciated. Or maybe Jason will just mess up again, and the blanket will be rejected. _He'll_ be rejected. And hell, Jason doesn't think he can handle that right now.

Everything starts to crash down on him, and Jason crouches, drops the blankets, and grips his hair instead. He pulls on it lightly, suddenly needing to grasp for breath as he tries to ground himself.

Fuck. _Fuck._

A regular old sickness. It hadn't even been an injury from patrol or something. Just a regular sickness that was causing Dick's lungs and body to practically shut down on him. And it was all of the sudden, too.

Jason had joined Bruce, Tim, Steph, and Dick on patrol tonight. Damian had been grounded, and Steph had gone home halfway through, and Jason had needed some info from Bruce's computer, and had decided to stay the night. And on patrol, Jason hadn't noticed anything other than Dick looking a little distracted—and _maybe_ tired. He'd been overjoyed at the thought of Jason staying at the manor, too.

And _fuck._ Now this.

Jason doesn't know how to handle _any_ of this anymore. He'd been okay when it was Tim breaking down in front of him. That had been familiar, something he dealt with often enough that it had been automatic, but Dick isn't having a panic attack. He's _sick._ And there's nothing for Jason to do—nothing for _any_ of them to do—except wait.

Jason's legs give out from underneath him, and he lands on his ass on the cold stone ground, and despite his best efforts, he cries.

He doesn't move for a long, long time.


	5. Chapter 5

The moment the hand lands on his shoulder, Damian is awake and alert and half away across the room with a knife in his hand, pointing it at the barely familiar silhouette standing next to his bed. It's not Richard, nor is it Father, and it's certainly not Pennyworth, who would have knocked before entering his bedroom. It's not any of his siblings, either.

No, it's Selina Kyle, eyebrow cocked up in what could be amusement if there had been a smirk on her face. There's not, though. And from what little time Damian has spent with Selina Kyle, he knows that that is terribly telling.

"Tell me what's wrong," Damian demands, not lowering the knife an inch.

Father will most certainly have—what Richard calls—a _cow_ when he hears of Damian's behavior, but Damian is already grounded for going to Metropolis for almost two days without informing anyone of his decision. A lecture could be no worse than the agony of being taken off of patrol for the next two weeks.

Selina Kyle does not answer him. Instead, her eyebrow raises a bit higher and she settles her hand onto her hip, looking rather put together for the middle of the night. Her gaze meets his own, and she holds it.

"I'm not really one for having a conversation while someone is pointing a knife at me," she says. She seems almost at ease, despite her words.

Damian snorts, but lowers the knife. "You are armed every time you and Father meet at night."

"I wouldn't compare a knife to a whip."

"I refuse to believe you do not have at least one knife on your person at all times. Even now," Damian tells her.

Kyle smiles something that could be constituted as a smirk had it not looked so tight, and Damian's reminded of the fact that he still doesn't know _why_ Selina Kyle is standing in his bedroom when she should be asleep in bed with Father.

"So?" Damian questions, just a tad more civilly this time. He pads across the room and tucks the small blade underneath his pillow. He looks to her again. "I assume it isn't an emergency since you aren't being immediately forthcoming with the details of the situation."

Kyle is silent a moment more. And then, "I suppose I was stalling to give your dad a chance to handle it before I sent you downstairs." Damian opens his mouth, but Kyle cuts him off. "The _second_ downstairs. There's something wrong with Dick."

Damian blinks, Kyle's words not quite sinking in. "Richard was fine before patrol," he says slowly, horror creeping up on him. "And the worst that happened tonight was a robbery. I manned the comms."

Selina Kyle reaches out slowly, grabs his hand, and pulls him towards the door. "Damian, I don't know what's wrong, but Bruce is handling it. Do you trust your dad?"

Startled, Damian lets her pull him along. "Yes," he says immediately, almost feeling affronted by the question. And really, what kind of question is _that?_ "Of course."

"Then talk to him." They're almost at the staircase. "And trust that Bruce will tell you what you need to know."

Damian stays silent at that. There's not much he can say anyways, too shocked by the news of Richard being injured enough to be brought down to the Cave to be treated, instead of the nearest bathroom, which Damian knows are stocked with medial kits.

It's only once they're on the first floor, heading towards the study that will lead them to the Cave—to Richard—that Damian notices Kyle is still holding his hand.

"I'm not a child," Damian says into the semi-darkness of the hallway. He doesn't snatch his hand back, like he might have once years ago. "I am not a child seeking comfort from their mother, and seeing as I live here, I will not get lost. There's no need to hold my hand."

She doesn't let go of his hand, though. A smile plays at her lips as they enter the study. The lights are on, and they slow at the sight of the clock. They stop completely while they're in front of it. Selina Kyle stares at it, and Damian stares at her, waiting.

He's not sure what he's waiting for, but he's sure it's important.

"I'm not your mom," Selina Kyle finally says.

"No," Damian tells her, his stomach flipping with pain and longing and love at the thought of Talia al Ghul. But she's right. Selina Kyle isn't his mother, and she will never replace Talia, whether she tried to or not. "You're not."

"Honestly, I don't think I want to be."

Damian isn't sure whether he's supposed to be hurt by that. He scowls. "What's your point?" he demands.

Selina Kyle still doesn't look at him. "You told me that I didn't need to hold your hand. I'm not your mom, and you're not my child. But Dick's not your mother, either."

And in that instant, Damian understands what she _isn't_ saying. "No," Damian says, swallowing past something that seems to be sticking in his throat. "He isn't."

"You remind me a bit of him," she continues, finally turning to face him a little. "Of Dick. When he was your age."

"Not of Father?"

"Oh no, you remind me plenty of Bruce," she tells him, smirk present on his face. "But when Dick was still Robin, maybe twelve or thirteen, Bruce was hurt pretty badly. I don't remember a lot of the details—" A complete lie, but Damian doesn't call her on it, "—but Dick was terrified of being away from him for more than two minutes."

"You're comparing me to a child," Damian sulks.

"I'm comparing you to a kid who is scared of losing his family," Kyle corrects him. "I'm not good at this, Damian. But I'm here, and despite a lot of things, I'm staying."

"Why are you saying all of this?" Damian asks, the something in his throat starting to burn. It's spreading to his eyes, and he rubs at them to relieve the sensation. "I don't understand what you're trying to tell me."

"I don't really know, either," Kyle says. "Or maybe I was just stalling for a little more time. I'm sure Bruce will appreciate the lack of hovering."

Damian scoffs. "I do not _hover._ That's Richard's—"

He falls silent. Bites his lip. Suddenly, he's terrified of going down there. Of staying up here. Of missing something, of seeing it all go wrong. He swallows it down, though, and finally lets go of Selina Kyle's hand. He reaches for the clock face, but before he has a chance to turn it to the correct time, it slides open, and Pennyworth steps out.

"Master Damian, Miss Kyle," Pennyworth greets. He looks drawn and tired, but not grief-stricken. It's reassuring. Pennyworth catches his gaze and offers a small smile. "Master Dick is stable, but I think he's fighting off something horrible at the moment."

"He's sick?" Damian asks in disbelief. "But Richard was fine this morning!"

"Indeed," Pennyworth says. "Whatever it is, it's rather aggressive. Dr. Thompkins will be stopping by in the morning to look Master Dick over and advise us where to go from here. For now, he will be alright."

"I'm going to see him." Damian starts down the Cave stairs when he doesn't get a rejection.

He hears Pennyworth behind him ask, "Would you mind joining me in the kitchen, Miss Kyle? I'm hoping hot chocolate will soothe everyone's rather frayed nerves," before the clock is sliding shut behind him, and he's at the bottom of the stairs.

The first thing he sees when he's down the stairs is Father, hunched over in his computer chair. He doesn't look like he's ready to be disturbed, so Damian keeps looking.

The second is Richard, unconscious even though he's being forced to practically sit up in his bed. He's hooked up to a bunch of machines, an oxygen mask strapped over his face. Even from here, Damian can hear the wheeze to his breaths and the sweat glistening to his forehead.

The third thing Damian sees is Drake. He's sitting by Richard's bedside, face hidden in his pulled-up knees. Damian sits down in a free chair on the opposite side of Richard's bed. He doesn't speak. Doesn't hover. All he does is watches Richard's pale face, and then he waits.


	6. Chapter 6

_Dick is drowning._

 _He's underwater, the surface just inches from his outstretched fingertips, but he can't get any closer. Something's wrapped around his ankle, weighing him down. He's stuck, and he can't breathe. He's going to die down here, he realizes. Down here in the Blüdhaven river, a weight attached to his ankle. It's been minutes and he has no way of alerting anyone in time to save him._

 _Involuntarily, he sucks in a breath—but the only thing that rushes in is water, and his arms sink down to his sides as his vision starts to darken. His eyes slide shut, and his last thought before he blacks out is_ , It's a good thing that I'm about to die, because Bruce is going to kill me.

 _And then the darkness takes over._

* * *

"…of oxygen should help with the cyanosis," a voice is saying.

Dick struggles to place it, but that feeling of drowning—the pressure on his chest and the burn of his lungs as he struggles for each breath—it's all encompassing. There's something bulky and annoying covering the lower half of his face, but he doesn't have the strength to open his eyes, let alone lift his arms.

The voice continues, "He'll be in and out of it while the antibiotics run their course, but if he doesn't get better—if he doesn't wake up— _get him to a hospital_. I mean it."

There's a pause, and Dick heaves out a rather painful cough, and he moans pathetically. He's burning up, too. The water must be hot, or something, because he feels like he's on fire. There's a cool hand brushing across his forehead, though, and he leans into it.

"Dick?" a different voice calls. This one is far more familiar. "Hey, chum, can you open your eyes for me?"

Dick's face scrunches up in distaste, but that's _Bruce_. Which means that someone had gotten to him in time. That means he's not underwater anymore. It also means that whatever pressure building up in his lungs isn't because he's drowning.

Or, maybe he still is drowning, and Bruce's voice and hand is just a dream he's having right before he's about to die. His brain's last wish to see his dad one more time.

Dick opens his eyes, gazing up blearily at Bruce, who's anxiously hovering by his side, expression tight with worry and fear, and Dick wants to reach out to Bruce then and there—because that expression is no dream. Dick doesn't think the last thing he wants to see is Bruce so worried for him. If anything, he'd want to see Bruce look happy, surrounded by love and family and _accepting_ it.

No, this isn't a dream. This is real. And Dick wants to reach up and grab Bruce's hand, send him a reassuring smile, and tell him that everything's going to be okay, even if he's not all that sure what's going on.

"He's awake," Bruce says, eyes flicking up and away from Dick's face. He doesn't pull away, though, and Dick keeps his eyes open, gaze locked on Bruce. He'd rather not have to try and open his eyes again. The first time was hard enough.

"How awake?" the first voice asks, and Dick finally recognizes it as Leslie Thompkins.

"His eyes are open," Bruce tells her. "And he's responding to me."

Dick coughs again, harsh and wheezing, and the force of it spasms throughout his whole body. And then he _keeps_ coughing, over and over and _over_ , until he's gasping for breath through sobs. One of Bruce's hands moves to rub his arm in a soothing motion, and Dick finally gathers up enough strength to lift on shaky hand and tangle it in Bruce's soft turtleneck.

The hand on his forehead had disappeared at some point during his coughing fit, but once the tears start falling from Dick's eyes, it comes back to wipe them from his cheeks.

Leslie appears on the opposite side of the bed from Bruce, then, stethoscope held out. "Hang on, honey," she tells him, her voice gentle. "I'm just going to listen to your lungs, okay?"

Dick doesn't protest, just nods once, and lets Leslie move the stethoscope over his chest and back. She grimaces, pulls away, and starts talking again.

It's hard to make out her words, though. They're starting to sound fluid, and by the time they get through his ears and to his brain, they're nothing but a mess of language, indecipherable. He's too tired to try and sign to her or Bruce, to ask her what she'd said, and he doesn't dare speak, for fear of spiraling into another coughing fit.

Before he knows, it, though, his eyelids are shutting of their own accord. Bruce and Leslie's conversation washes away, and—

* * *

 _He's not underwater, but he still can't breathe. There's water blocking his airways, and he coughs and coughs, but it's not enough and he can't_ breathe.

 _"Hey, don't die on me," an unfamiliar voice says, and there's a shaky hand patting at his back lightly. The guy sounds terrified. "Goddammit, just breathe. Please."_

 _And—amazingly—he does. He inhales and then exhales, and his lungs, still desperately burning for oxygen, finally start working properly. Dick feels like he's going to cry in relief. And then maybe find Bruce and hug the crap out of his dad. He doesn't have the energy to do either of those things, though, so he just stays where he is, one side of his forehead pressed against the rough, wet wood of the dock beneath him. He's shivering and each of his limbs feel like jelly, but he's alive._

 _He takes it as a win._

 _"You alive?" the voice asks._

 _Dick pries his eyes open and squints up at the unfamiliar guy sitting next to him through the lenses of his mask. It's a teenager, Tim's age. Maybe younger. He looks absolutely terrified, his eyes wide, his lip trembling, and it doesn't help that he's soaking wet. He's also sporting a shiny black eye._

 _"Who—?" Dick only gets one word out before he's coughing. He tries again, croaking, "Who are you?"_

 _The teenager licks his lips. "Um, Liam?"_

 _"What happened?" Dick asks._

 _Liam looks even closer to tears than Dick feels. "I swear I didn't know they were gonna chain you to that anchor. I swear."_

 _Dick's blood runs cold, and he pushes himself up on his forearms, but they're shaking too much to support him, and he ends up face-planting back onto the dock. Liam doesn't help, and Dick's a little relieved about that._

 _"Are you okay?" Liam whispers._

 _Dick coughs again, but it's not as bad as the last one. "Getting there."_

 _"I'm sorry."_

 _Dick swallows. His voice is hoarse, and cracking and basically almost gone, but he pushes out a, "You saved me?"_

 _Liam nods. "I'm not a killer, I swear," Liam tells him. Dick is kind of inclined to believe him. "I need the money they're shelling out for my mom, but I couldn't just let you drown."_

 _Dick closes his eyes, giving himself a moment of respite to calm down and get his breathing under control. Then, he flips himself over onto his back with a grunt and stares up at the smoggy night sky overhead. He feels absolutely done, and he doesn't think it's even midnight at this point._

 _Finally, after it's been probably two minutes too long, Dick feels well enough to sit up without collapsing. He runs a gloved hand through his hair, and asks Liam, "Are you okay to go home by yourself?"_

 _Liam blinks, startled. "You're not gonna arrest me?"_

 _Dick huffs a light laugh, careful not to aggravate his aching lungs, and the tension in his shoulders eases just a bit. "I'm not going to arrest you."_

 _"Oh," Liam says, sighing in relief. "Thanks, I guess."_

 _"So?" Dick prompts. "Need help home?"_

 _The teenager shakes his head. "No. I'm okay. I only live a few blocks from here."_

 _Dick sighs, and stands up, Liam following suit. "If you're sure."_

 _Dick knows, though, that he'll probably end up following the kid home. Just in case somebody saw him pull Dick out of the river. With a shaky smile and a sloppy salute, Dick shoots his grapple gun—thank goodness it's still in place—and lets it tug him towards the roof of the nearest warehouse. Somehow, he manages to pretend like his chest isn't a mass of hurt._

* * *

Dick wakes up with a jolt this time, hacking up half his lungs in a desperate attempt to breathe. His eyes snap open, and he leans forward and fumbles with his oxygen mask. He feels like he's about to throw his lungs up out of his mouth, and he can't—he can't—

"Hey, hey," Jason says, grabbing Dick's hands from where they're failing wildly and holding them with one of them. He holds Dick completely upright as he coughs and chokes completely by his arms, and Dick doesn't fight him. Finally, Dick manages to cough something up, and Jason lets go of one of Dick's hands to pull the oxygen mask to hang around his neck and holds a tissue to his mouth. He orders, "Spit."

Dick does. Then he sits back on his hospital bed that's acting far more like a chair, absolutely exhausted. He's jello again. His entire body this time.

"Liam?" Dick manages to ask. "Where'd he go?"

 _Did Liam get home?_

"You're delusional, Dickie," Jason tells him, settling the oxygen mask over his nose again.

Dick's eyes flutter closed, and he starts to drift again. He's not sure he understands what's actually happening anymore. It's all too confusing, the present and his memories mixing together into some kind of blur of motion. He settles for just going to back to sleep and sorting through it all later. When he doesn't feel like he's about two steps from death.

He swears, though, as he's falling asleep, that there are fingers running over his knuckles, and it occurs to him that Jason never actually let one of his hands go.

And then he slips back under.


	7. Chapter 7

"Is he okay?" Tim asks as he wanders back into the infirmary.

Bruce doesn't look up from his laptop, and he doesn't answer, but Jason, who's sitting right next to him, snaps out a, "Does he _look_ okay?"

He doesn't look okay. Still unconscious and audibly wheezing, Dick looks like he's three steps from death. Pale, bags under his eyes, hair limp—Bruce hasn't seen him look this awful in a long time, and it makes his heart clench and his teeth grind.

That's his _kid._ His son. There's nothing that Bruce can do for him right now, and it's killing him.

It's been a trying night. Bruce hadn't left the Cave once since he'd brought Dick down, switching between working at the computer and sitting by Dick's bedside, fighting against every instinct he has to stay and just sit instead of putting on the cowl and looking for something to punch.

The training area is deserted, though, so maybe if his tension gets any higher, that's where he'll head next.

For now, he sits at his laptop and puts together Nightwing's last couple cases, tracing the timeline to see if there'd been something Dick had been exposed to that could have caused this. Leslie hadn't thought Dick's sickness had come on naturally, and Bruce had been inclined to agree.

But from what he's found so far, it looks like Dick really _had_ just gotten sick all of the sudden. The one case he'd been working the past week or so had been apprehending a couple arms dealers, and he hadn't been successful.

On the other side of the bed, Tim sits down and pulls out his tablet. It's mid-morning now, and Bruce should probably be at work, and Tim in class, but they'd both decided to skip in favor of watching over Dick and hacking into his files.

Damian had been cajoled into going to school—reluctantly—by Alfred, and Selina's nowhere to be found.

Jason, though, hasn't left Dick's side save for getting blankets and going up to the kitchen to eat a brief breakfast while Leslie looked over Dick.

Pneumonia. An unnatural onset.

Bruce continues digging through Dick's files, and he only stops when he reaches a document with a star next to the name. He reads the file slowly, committing every detail to memory. His eyebrows furrow the farther into the file he gets.

When he gets to the end of the file, Bruce glances to his right. "Jason," he says, and Jason shoots the constant glare he's kept up since Dick woke up the second time over at him. Bruce pushes past the emotions fighting themselves in his chest at the sight of his second child and asks, "You said he mentioned a Liam?"

Jason blinks, obviously not expecting the question. "Yeah. Why?"

Bruce doesn't answer. Instead he copies the file onto his flash drive, determined to check out the teenager's background on the batcomputer next.

"Bruce," Jason huffs out, glowering at him. "Seriously, will you take one goddamn minute to explain to me why it matters that he said the name Liam while he was delusional?"

"Liam Byrne saved his life a couple of days ago," Tim interjects for him. He's tapping away at his tablet, and when he turns it around for Jason and Bruce to see, it's of Dick's vitals monitored by his suit from two days ago at around midnight. "His oxygen levels dropped for a few minutes, but his heart never stopped beating."

Jason's staring at the tablet now, his grip on Dick's hand tightening. "So that means what?" he grits out. He sounds exhausted.

"Likely causes of low oxygen levels are asthma, drugs, suffocation, or drowning." Tim takes a breath, and then continues, "Given his body temperature, it was probably the last one."

"So he almost drowned," Jason states, glancing back at Dick's face. "Well, shit."

Tim deflates. "It's the likeliest option. I just can't believe none of us noticed."

Bruce can.

They'd been busy trying to wrestle the Joker back into Arkham, and they'd just apprehended him the night before.

The Joker had been why Bruce had been so angry with Damian for leaving Gotham without telling anyone, too. He'd spiraled into a fit of panic when he'd woken up to Damian's empty bed and a note saying he'd be back in two days. And with the Joker running rampant, all Bruce had been able to do is send Tim after Damian and hope they both made it back in one piece, hoping to all hope that it wouldn't turn out the same way it had with Jason.

And because of all that worry about Damian and getting the Joker into Arkham as fast as he could, Dick had almost died, and he hadn't told any of them.

And now here they are.

"How do you know this Liam guy saved him?" Jason asks after a moment.

"They met two days ago," Tim says. "In the file Dick has on him, he put the date they first met."

"There's a star next to the name, too," Bruce says reluctantly. "It's a habit Dick has, of people he's met in the mask that he thinks he can help turn their lives around. Coupled with the fact that you mentioned Dick saying his name, there might have been a connection."

"This is all kinds of messed up," Jason says glumly. "Do you two even _know_ what the word privacy means?"

Tim glares up at Jason. "Oh, like you haven't hacked into files to get info on people."

"'Course I have," Jason cracks. "But not any _family's_ files."

Bruce knows that's highly untrue, but he doesn't comment. All he knows is that he'll have to be a lot more vigilant about checking up on his kids, because this can _not_ happen again. Once was one time too many. He'll start checking suits vitals after every patrol, and maybe create a program that will alert him if it's anything urgent.

It's quiet for a moment or two as Bruce and Tim both work on the respective devices, and Bruce pulls up the cameras—the ones that still work, anyways—for the Blüdhaven docks, attempting to provide proof of Tim's theory. One of the warehouses of the arms dealers that Dick had been looking into is housed nearby, so that's where Bruce starts.

Then he just watches.

When he looks up, scowling marring his face, theory confirmed, Jason's dozing.

Bruce's face softens of his own accord, and before Bruce can think better of it, he says, "You should get some sleep."

"Fuck you," Jason snaps back immediately.

"Dick's not going to get better just because you're sitting here," Bruce argues. "And you need sleep."

Jason glares at him. "I'm not going to sleep. So fuck you, because I could lob the same argument at you and you'd tell me that you don't _need_ it or some crap like that, and we both know it's untrue. But I'm leaving his side, because the last time I saw him awake he was goddamn delusional and I'm not risking the goddamn nightmares so, you know what, Bruce? Fuck. You."

Bruce doesn't know what to say to that. Tim's gaping at Jason, too. The emotional toll has obviously worn on Jason, and Bruce wonders when his kids got so close. When Jason got so protective of Dick. Maybe it was in between all the coughing and fevers, and the fact that they'd come so close to losing Dick before Leslie arrived.

Or maybe Bruce has just missed more of his kids' lives than he meant to.

He doesn't know anymore.

"Alright," Bruce acquiesces, because even though anger has been filling up his very veins, sometimes he has a hard time looking at Jason and even thinking of arguing, because all he sees is a boy who he didn't save—it's getting better. God, is it getting better. They can sometimes have civil conversations, and Bruce feels something like happiness blooming in his chest—but even though the anger fills his veins, he can't find it in him to yell or demand or try to make Jason leave. Instead he just says, "Alright. Stay."

And Jason slouches back in his seat. Tim looks between the two of them, and Bruce can't help but wave him over to the empty chair on his other side that used to play host to Damian. Tim reluctantly sets his tablet down and slinks over, carefully curling up into the new chair.

Bruce puts an arm around Tim and pulls Tim close. His second youngest turns a little red, but he leans into the contact.

"He's going to be okay, right?" Tim whispers.

Bruce doesn't say anything for a moment. He just looks at Dick—his eldest—and he sees wrongness in the pale unmoving form. He doesn't see any of the life and light that Dick usually radiates, like he's a miniature sun. The sun's gone dark, and Bruce feels cold and wrong, and he doesn't know if he really has an answer for Tim.

Eventually, Jason says for him, "It's Dick. Of course he's gonna be okay."

And that's that, Bruce supposes. For now, they wait to see if Dick will prove Jason right. Bruce forces himself to believe that Dick will, because if he doesn't, he's not sure he's going to survive the end of this mess.


	8. Chapter 8

Tim snaps awake to Dick's heart monitor going crazy.

Bruce is already pulling away from Tim, standing up so he can rush to Dick's side. Damian's scrambling up from one of the chairs on the other side, and Jason's right there next to Bruce. Alfred's puttering around the monitors, a frown pulling his face down.

And then Tim focuses on Dick.

Dick's awake. He's awake and pulling at the oxygen mask strapped to his face, and when his fumbling fingers can't coordinate enough to get it off, he starts scrabbling at Bruce's shirt. Bruce is constantly murmuring in Dick's ear, though Tim can't hear what he's saying. He only shares a wide-eyed glance with Damian before he's up and crowding up by Jason's side.

"—hear screaming," Dick rasps, tears in his eyes.

He's still pulling at Bruce, but it's slightly less desperate, and Bruce helps still his hands. Dick's mouth moves under the oxygen mask again, but he's shaking his head too much for Tim to understand what he's trying to say.

"Hurts," Dick manages to wheeze out.

"You're sick," Bruce tells Dick, lightly squeezing one of Dick's captured hands. "You're alright, Dick. It sucks, but you're going to be alright."

Eventually, after a round of coughing, the words seem to register in Dick's brain, because he slowly starts to relax, his fever bright eyes sliding shut.

Tim's heart is beating halfway out of his chest, and he feels like he's holding his breath as he watches his big brother calm down from what must be a fever dream. Jason had said that Dick had been delusional earlier.

"Shouldn't the antibiotics be working by now?" Tim whispers to nobody in particular.

He's not even sure his words are even audible, that's how quiet they are, but a look at Bruce's watch shows that it's past four in the afternoon, now, and that means Dick's had at least a couple of rounds of antibiotics. Tim doesn't think he should still be this bad off.

Jason twitches, though, so Tim thinks that maybe someone _had_ heard him. Still, there's no answer to his question. Everyone is too preoccupied with watching all of the tension leak out of Dick as he falls asleep again.

Nobody speaks for a moment, and then Alfred says, "I shall start on dinner, then. We'll have it early tonight since the lot of you slept through lunch."

"Thank you," is Bruce's response as he sits back down in his original spot.

Tim, Jason, and Damian chorus Bruce's thanks as the butler leaves the room, and they all sit back down in the spots they were sitting in— _sleeping_ in, in Tim's case—before Dick had woken up. Tim keeps his eyes trained on Dick's face, half afraid Dick will snap awake again, heart monitor beeping rapidly to mimic a wild heartbeat, which then develops into tachycardia, and _then—_

"Tim's right," Jason murmurs, and Tim's head snaps up to look at him, his train of thought flying out the window. Jason continues, "He shouldn't still be this bad off. At the very least, he should be coherent, right?"

"If he doesn't improve by tonight," Bruce says wearily, "I'll call Leslie."

"And if Doctor Thompkins recommends a hospital?" Damian asks quietly, eyes vivid and fierce as they study Bruce's face.

He looks worn and quiet and small, and it's a weird sight to see, because even though Damian's short, he always seems to build himself up with his own ego, and Tim has a hard time thinking of him as a thirteen year old. The same age _Tim_ had started as Robin. But like this? Like this, it's hard to forget.

"Then Alfred and I will drive him to Gotham General," Bruce says.

They lapse into silence after that, watching Dick breathe as he sleeps. Tim, despite how sleepy he'd been before, finds himself alert and awake. His heart has slowed down to a normal pace, but his still feels wired and tense.

It's a few minutes past five that Bruce finally gets up to call Leslie. And it's a few minutes after he returns that Alfred makes the trek down the stairs and clears his throat.

"Dinner is ready," he announces. He fixes each of them with a Look. "I expect each and every one of you to eat tonight."

Bruce frowns. "Alfred, I'm not—"

"Maybe not all at once," Alfred amends, "but you will eat, Master Bruce." He waits for Bruce to nod, before he speaks again, saying, "Now, as for the rest of you, dinner is waiting to be eaten in the dining room. Come along."

Tim spares Damian and Jason a glance, before sighing and getting up from his chair and following after Alfred. Damian catches up to him, and neither of them says anything to the other as they climb the stairs. Jason doesn't come with them, but Tim kind of expected that.

"I suppose there's only so many battles you can fight," Alfred says when Damian and Tim have settled across the table from each other. They're served their meal, and Alfred hurries out of the room.

They eat in silence, and it's not awkward, per se, since he and Damian don't really talk much anyways, but it is tense. Tenser than usual. Tim's getting really tired of all the tense silences in his life. It seems like it's always one tense situation after the other, though this is probably one of the worst.

Damian is picking at his salad, and he looks so— _so_ young. Younger than thirteen. He looks like a kid—scared, alone, and just plain _young._ For some reason, Tim decides to open his mouth and say, "He'll be alright."

It's eerily similar to what Jason had said earlier, " _It's Dick. Of course he's gonna be alright."_

Damian shoots Tim a scathing look. "I don't need empty reassurances, Drake."

"It's not an empty reassurance," Tim says, frowning. He stabs a leaf from his salad with his fork and looks at it contemplatively. "It's what Jason said earlier. Dick's going to be okay."

"Todd is stuck to Richard's side," Damian snaps, slamming his fork onto the table. Tim can't look him in the eye, though, so he keeps staring at his salad like it'll give him life's answers. "Even Father refuses to part with Richard. They're all acting like he's—"

Tim sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Like he's dying."

"He's not," Damian says, quietly. "He _can't."_

"We don't have control over life and death," Tim tells him. "This isn't a surgery, where if the surgery goes well and we take care of the wound, everything will turn out fine. This is an infection in one of Dick's vital organs."

"I thought you said Richard would be fine!" Damian yells, planting his palms on the table and standing up. Tim finally looks up. "You just said that he would be alright!"

"He will be," Tim says, thinking back to the heart monitor going crazy, to Dick's incoherent murmuring, to his fever bright eyes that look like they're a million miles away from them. Away from home. There's something—off about it all.

Tim tenses.

Damian's eyes are boring into his. "What? What is it?"

"I don't know," Tim says honestly. "But there's something about the way he's responding to antibiotics. It's—It's weird."

"The toxicology reports came back clean," Damian argues. "And according to the CBC, his immune system is fighting off an infection. And the doctor said he might not get better right away."

"But it's _weird,_ Damian," Tim insists. "Dick has a strong immune system. But the way this hit him—how quickly he got sick, and how bad it got, and how he's not responding to antibiotics—it doesn't make any sense. If this were any other infection, Dick would be coherent by now. Heck, Bruce said he was up a few days after he was shot in the back of the head."

Damian deflates. "So what now? What else can you go on?"

"Byrne," Tim says. "Liam Byrne. The kid who was there when Dick almost drowned."

"What about him?" Damian asks.

"How much do you know?"

Damian's chin comes up defensively. "Father debriefed me. I'm well-informed."

"He might be the answer to this," Tim says, stabbing another piece of lettuce with his fork. Damian sits down slowly as Tim continues. "I don't know how yet, and I don't even know if I'm right. Maybe it is just a bad infection, and Dick's body is just having a hard time fighting it off, but—but I'd rather follow up on this and be wrong, than not check it out at all and be right."

"You think there may have been more about the arms deal that we don't know about," Damian realizes, his eyes wide.

Tim nods. "And Byrne's the only one we know was there that we can easily get to."

Damian stares at him for a full ten seconds. "We're going tonight then?"

"Yeah," Tim says. "Tonight. I'll sneak you out, so don't worry about that."

Tim stuffs his collected salad into his mouth, and that's that. They eat, and they say nothing more. Tim feels a lot more determined and a lot less unnerved than he has since early this morning when Dick first passed out in the hallway.

Whether he's right or wrong on this, at least he'll be _doing_ something.


End file.
